He paused, as if daring Richard to deny it. “Say what you will of that German vulture, he is motivated by sheer greed. I daresay he is enjoying this chance to humiliate you, for you do have a rare gift for making enemies. But we’re still dealing with basic greed, which is why the French king is so much more dangerous. Philippe hates you with the only spark of passion ever to inflame that shriveled soul of his. Oh, he would also like to put Johnny on your throne, realizing that Johnny is much easier prey than you. I confess to being grievously disappointed in that lad.”
“So am I,” Richard said, having discovered that he was actually enjoying his eerie, improbable conversation with this sardonic spirit.
“But it is Philippe’s poisonous jealousy that would doom you. You do know what will happen if he ever gets you in his power, Richard? You’ll never see the light of day again and when death comes, you’ll welcome it.”
“Of course I know that! But in case you’ve not noticed, I do not have much control over events these days.”
“You have more control than you know, lad. Make the most of it. Do whatever it takes to keep Heinrich from selling you to the French.”
“Even if that means swallowing every last shred of my pride?” Richard demanded, with sudden bitterness.
“Yes, damn you, yes! You owe this to me, Richard. Save my empire. Do not let my life’s work become dust on the wind. Do not let Philippe and Johnny destroy it all.” It was very quiet after that. When Henry finally spoke again, the raw passion was gone from his voice, as was the ironic, detached amusement. “There is something else you need to remember whenever this new reality of yours becomes more than you think you can bear. You cannot gain revenge from the grave. Trust me on this; I know.”
Richard did not respond at once, for a fettered memory had just been set free—the last words his father had ever spoken to him. Compelled by Philippe to give his rebel son the kiss of peace, he’d done so, and then growled, God grant that I live long enough to avenge myself upon you! It was only then that Richard had realized Henry was truly dying.
“When I found myself a prisoner at Dürnstein, knowing I was facing a trial at Heinrich’s court, charged with crimes I’d never committed, I began to think that mayhap I was being punished for other sins. At the time, I did not consider them sins. I thought I was justified in defending my birthright and my mother. Now . . . I am not so sure. Is this why God has turned His face away from me? Because of my sins against you?”
Richard waited tensely for Henry’s answer. It never came. There was only silence.
THE NEXT MORNING, the dream was still so vivid that it unsettled Richard, for he remembered hallucinating at Jaffa in the throes of fever, convinced that Philippe and his brothers John and Geoffrey were at his sickbed. Could he be hallucinating again? He was not on fire with fever, though, and he took comfort from that, deciding it was only a dream, nothing more.
He had another bad day, for his coughing was now so persistent that he sometimes felt as if he were strangling. He finally gained a brief surcease in midafternoon when he fell asleep. But when he awoke, his fear of hallucinations came flooding back as he stared at the three men by his bed. The burgrave did not look as stoic as before; he was flushed and clearly ill at ease. A rail-thin youth with red hair, freckles, and a friendly gap-toothed smile was at the burgrave’s side. And kneeling by the pallet was a man small and misshapen, cursed with a receding chin, flat nose, and crippled legs, so plain that his enemies cruelly called him “dwarf” and “imp” and “gargoyle,” England’s disgraced chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp.
Richard struggled to sit up, for the chain had snagged on his blanket, limiting his range of motion. He still managed to touch the chancellor’s arm, needing the reassurance that Longchamp was flesh and blood, not another phantom spirit. “Guillaume? How are you here?”
Longchamp’s dark eyes shone with unshed tears. “God will punish them for this, sire,” he said, reaching over to untangle the chain. “After your brother drove me into exile, I retreated to Normandy, but as soon as I heard of your capture, I set out for Rome and then Germany. When I got to Speyer, Heinrich had already left for Hagenau and no one knew your whereabouts. The Bishop of Speyer privately confided what the guards had told him—that the emperor’s seneschal, Markward von Annweiler, had come at dawn for you. Bishop Otto insisted he’d had no part in it and did not know where you’d been taken. When I pressed him, though, he admitted it was most likely Trifels Castle.”
This was not what Richard wanted to know, but he’d been too busy trying to suppress a cough to interrupt. “No . . . I meant how did you get the burgrave to let you in to see me? How did you even manage to communicate with the man? He speaks no French, no Latin. . . .”